


Permission

by to_the_wick (Jei_Stark)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Arc Reactor Kink, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jei_Stark/pseuds/to_the_wick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony has a need and pretends it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permission

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written post-IM1 but before every other Marvel movie -- this means Tony's physical reaction to reactor removal is similar to his reaction when Stane forcefully removed it toward the end of the first movie.

It's not a kink.  
  
Of course, when he first mentions it to her, that's exactly what he implies, and their first time involving reactor play is very much on the kinky side. He cums hard, still feeling her phantom fingers on his chest even after they're gone, still reveling in the feeling of her pulling at the reactor, like a hot-cold suctioning of his insides. She tells him it's okay, and he believes her whispers then; he has her sweat-slicked body pressed tightly against his, and really, why _wouldn't_ that be okay?  
  
He gives himself a mission to Burma -- Myanmar -- whatever they're calling it now. Weapons cache, in and out. He leaves on Friday night, and she stays at his place all pacing and paperwork until he returns late Saturday night, half-conscious and muttering about future armor reinforcements around the ribcage to prevent said ribs from cracking under pressure again. There's a different kind of pressure she's worried about, but she winds the bandages tightly around his chest and feeds him painkillers with his cereal.  
  
She even lets him sit in his workshop for a while on Sunday morning, tinkering until his head starts to hit the keyboard, and then it's back to bed. He only stops balking when she promises to be in bed, too. She makes sure he doesn't roll onto his bad ribs, and he makes sure her waist is warm, his arm snaking around and pulling her close in a sleepy, drug-induced haze.  
  
On Sunday night, while the bandages are unraveling and the pills are wearing off, he asks her for the reactor play again. This time, though, it's a _request_ , only spoken like an order, quiet in the dark. He keeps his breathing decidedly even.  
  
Her fingers slide onto the rim, palm pressed against the glow, and her hand keeps this position for a long minute. He wants to remind himself of her small hands, talented in more ways than he knew when he first asked her to do this, when it was about simple replacement and not complicated kink. But it's not a kink now, he's not hard and this isn't about fun, it's about a need he can't even put words to, and his breath quickens in anticipation.  
  
She calls him _Mr. Stark_ now, lets him know she's going to turn that quarter inch. In between greedy gulps of air, he hisses out a Ms. Potts and a _please._ He's holding still, trying to be good, but there's still a slight tremble to his joints so he's _failing_ to be still, and it makes his heart crash in his chest, even as she starts sliding the reactor out, because he's trying, but he's failing, and he needs to keep trying, but how many chances should he even get for this, for any of this, and she slides it out a little more, and her talent isn't her fingers, he thinks in a jumble, it's her morals it's her heart beating and she's better than him and has always _been_ better than him, and so his mind stumbles _Pepper give me permission to do this give me permission to breathe give me please_ and he's close to blacking out from holding his breath for so long but he won't until she gives him that okay gives him that--  
  
When she slides the reactor back in place and turns that quarter inch, she can hear him gasping for air again, as if he'd been holding his breath underwater or lifting something so heavy all his muscles now tremble with the exertion. She pulls him close quickly, feeling his cold sweat, listening to his hiccups and choked-down tearless sobs muffled at the crook of her neck. She can feel his eyelashes tickle her shoulders, knowing his eyes are wide in the dark. Eventually, he calms down enough to quietly mumble a few even thank-yous. His cling morphs into a hug, warm and protective, and he's back in one piece again. She's not sure how many pieces she's still in, but now it's him holding her together, so it doesn't really matter.  
  
It's not a kink. When his ribs are better, he's going to pretend it is. He's gotten bad at pretending lately, especially around her, but that's okay; he has his sweat-slicked body pressed tightly against hers, and really, why _wouldn't_ that be okay?


End file.
